


Nature's Heart

by xstarxchaserx



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Anal Sex, M/M, Non-Graphic Sex, On the Run, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-TWOTL, References to Other Sex Acts, Soft-Core Porn, Very little dialogue, will in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 06:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xstarxchaserx/pseuds/xstarxchaserx
Summary: It was easier to keep running, that’s what he told himself. Easier to compartmentalize, to focus on each second as it passed and not the bigger picture. If he thought too hard about that, or the future, or anything besides the present moment, he knew he wouldn’t come back from it.But, god, he was exhausted.





	Nature's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For the Will in the Woods challenge put up by [electrarhodes](https://electrarhodes.tumblr.com) on tumblr. You can also find me and more of my work [my tumblr](http://xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com) as well.
> 
> _Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean._ **John Muir**

It was a cool night, soft breezes weaving through the branches, rustling pine boughs and the last of the leaves struggling to hang on. It provided a soft backdrop for the night-calls of birds and other forest creatures. Owls hunting prey, flittering bats, the almost-too-quiet sounds of a fox in the underbrush not far off. The transition to fall meant every living thing in the forest was stocking up on provisions to get it through the harsh snows ahead. 

Will was no different. 

These weren’t the woods of Wolf Trap, where he knew every trail and would walk them regularly with his pack. This was relatively knew, he and Hannibal had only been settled there for just over a month. They had moved several times, across the ocean, to the Caribbean, back north. Their latest hideaway was tucked on the northwestern shore of Williston Lake, deep in the woods of Northern British Columbia. There was plenty of fish in the lake to accompany the woodland game, several of which were on the line Will was carting back… home? The word still sounded foreign on his tongue, but it was the only word he could think to use.

Hannibal called the place they were in a cabin, but Will couldn’t agree with him. It was sleek lines, large glass windows overlooking the lake, slate shingles and warm wood. Too modern to be a _cabin_ , but somehow blending into the surroundings enough that it looked like it was meant to be there. Hannibal had assured him that the windows were triple glazed to keep the cold out and the heat from the large stone fireplace in. Will wasn’t quite sure he believed him— about that or anything else for that matter.

There was a small room off the side of the kitchen with a sink and a work station. It had quickly become Will’s space. He kept his fishing gear there, with his rods and waders— hosed off outside if need be— stored neatly and out of the way. He lost himself in the act of cleaning and preparing the fish to be used in whatever dishes Hannibal (and occasionally himself) decided to make. It was a ritual to him, a way to let go, not think, just let the blade slide through the flesh in front of him and breathe. 

He had brought home other game as well. He had learned enough of hunting, from Abigail and _for_ Abigail (her memory, at least). The chest freezer Hannibal had procured for them was almost filled with meats. Deer, mostly, with rabbit and elk and leftover fish in there as well. It would hold them through the winter months and then some, not that Will had any plans to stop hunting until it became impractical. 

He needed the time outside, away from Hannibal. It made it easier to handle what his reality was if he didn’t have to face it. That probably meant he wasn’t handling it, but running, still. 

Running more. 

He shook his head, cleaned his mess, packed away what needed to be packed away, and left the rest in the fridge for Hannibal to prepare for dinner. He showered off, letting the almost scalding water wash over him and take the rest of the chill from his bones. When he could hear the sounds of Hannibal moving about in the kitchen, the smells of fresh herbs and butter wafting upstairs, he finally pulled clothes on. Tucking into the softest grey cable knit sweater and jeans already worn in from his forays into the woods, Will made his way down to the kitchen, bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. 

Hannibal stood at the island, already plating the fish. A sauce swimming with the green herbs Will had smelled poured lovingly over the meat, all nestled next to roasted potatoes and what Will was fairly certain was broccoli rabe. Where Hannibal found that, Will couldn’t fathom. Even in the middle of nowhere, as far out and away from Hannibal’s definition of civilization as they were, the man had his standards. 

They ate together in the dining room, at a rough hewn wooden table with a few candles and evergreen boughs as the centerpiece. There was resin poured into natural crevices in the wood of the table, a vivid, crystal blue that echoed the forest and the lake they were surrounded by. It reminded Will of the Japanese art exhibit he had seen one in DC, the old pottery that had been shattered and mended with gold, beautiful for the damage but never the same. 

Fitting, then, for his and Hannibal’s _home._

To chase the thought away, Will asked Hannibal about the book he had been reading earlier in the day. Will had come across him in the study, a small fire going, feet resting on a footstool and half asleep with the book resting on his chest. He had looked so soft, so warm, that Will immediately turned and left the room, pulled on his gear, and left to wade out into the lake. 

He found his thoughts circling back in the same direction when he finished washing the dishes and made his way back into the study. It was the warmest place in the house, both in temperature and comfort levels. The furniture allowed you to sink in it, made more for comfort than Will would have expected from the aesthetics Hannibal preferred. Hannibal was ensconced in his same chair, reading his same book, and Will almost left again. Too cold to venture outside again, he almost retreated up to his room to stay there like some poor, kicked dog. 

It was easier to keep running, that’s what he told himself. Easier to compartmentalize, to focus on each second as it passed and not the bigger picture. If he thought too hard about that, or the future, or anything besides the present moment, he knew he wouldn’t come back from it. 

But, god, he was exhausted. 

He retreated, finding a pseudo-sanctuary under his covers and landing almost immediately in the world of the Dragon again, in the world of _before_. 

He dreamt of the spray of hot blood on his tongue. Of Hannibal, vicious and victorious before him. Of the cliff. Of the bone-deep regret the second they slipped past the edge. Of falling.

He dreamt of the icy water pouring into his throat, washing away the copper, filling his lungs and stomach, knowing that it was the end. Wishing it wasn’t. Wanting more, always more, but running instead. Running them both right into the waves below.

He was so fucking tired of running.

He woke, the sky still dark with a clock that read just after midnight. He didn’t even think, just pulled his sweater back on, allowed his bare feet to carry him back to the study where Hannibal was still sitting with his book, seemingly lost in the pages, but Will knew better. He knew that Hannibal had heard his door open, heard his footsteps, was on guard as much— if not more— than Will himself. 

It took them both by surprise when Will walked over to Hannibal’s chair, plucked the book from his hands, sat it on the table beside them, and bodily climbed onto his lap. Surprised them both even more when Will framed Hannibal’s face with his hands and kissed the question from his mouth before he could even form it. 

It was like the moment the rain finally falls after a heat wave, promising a break to the oppressive heat of the day. Will muttered reassurances he had told himself Hannibal didn’t need. That he wasn’t leaving. That he wasn’t sleepwalking. That he was afraid, too. That it was okay to be afraid. That he was too exhausted to keep running from himself. From Hannibal. From _them_.

In return, Hannibal’s hands slid up Will’s back, down again, back up. One made its way under Will’s sweater while the other laced its fingers in his curls. When Will ran out of words, could only breathe into the space where their lips met over and over again, Hannibal filled the space with his own fears, his own hopes. 

And the next time Will made his way upstairs, it wasn’t to his room and it wasn’t alone. More nerves and hesitation, naked skin to naked skin, soft touches and hard bites. It was more than Will had thought to hope for. More than he had dreamt of. He took his time, savoring every movement, every sound, every whimper he could pull from Hannibal as he worked him open. He used too much lube and it was messy, messier than he thought Hannibal would have liked, but Hannibal demanded more. When Will finally sank into Hannibal, he closed his eyes, only opening them again at the soft press of fingers against his jaw. 

“I know,” Hannibal said. “I feel it too.”

And Will believed him.

When he fell asleep that night, it was with Hannibal curled up next to him, head resting on Will’s chest, and a view out the sky light of the aurora overhead.

He dreamt of the Dragon, again. 

But this time, there was no fall.


End file.
